Free Brash by Laura Wright Page A

the last man in the world she’d ever have believed would be her first.
    Sleeping companion, that is.
    *   *   *
    Warmth infused Cole, and he sank deeper beneath the covers. He wanted more—more of whatever that was. Her? Had she stayed with him all night? Was it her skin that radiated such heat?
    As his mind slowly returned to reality, he opened his eyes. White ceiling, pale pink walls, sunlit black-and-white photographs of dogs, a snoring basset hound beside him on the bed. Hadn’t Belle been on the floor, on the rug, before he’d dropped off? How the hell had she gotten up here with those short legs? Maybe someone had slipped out and slipped the dog in. His gut pulled slightly.
So she didn’t stick around. Big deal.
She wasn’t meant to. She wasn’t his. Christ . . . at most, she might become a friend.
    â€œGood morning,” her voice called to him from the doorway.
    Cole turned, let his still slightly muddled gaze skim over her. She was freshly showered, wearing her scrubs and carrying a tray. Must be headed into work. Her pretty face was free of makeup, except maybe something glossing her lips. And her hair was down, hanging loose and lovely at her shoulders.
    Yep. Friend. They could manage that now, couldn’t they? After sharing a bed, airspace, a mutual love of BB guns.
    He pushed out of his mind the strange urge he had to yank back the covers, leap from the bed, and kiss her, and instead called, “Mornin’, Doc.”
    Her smile was a little shy as she came over to the bed and placed the tray down on his lap.
    â€œWhat’s this here?” he asked, taking in the covered plate.
    â€œBreakfast.”
    â€œYou didn’t need to do that.” He couldn’t recall the last time someone had brought him breakfast in bed. Maybe because it was such an intimate thing to do—and Cole Cavanaugh steered clear of all things intimate. They brought on a desire to swap war stories, find weaknesses, root out emotions that were dead and buried. Like his sister.
    â€œIt’s no trouble,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
    She meant his ankle. He moved it, tried to circle the foot. Grit his teeth against the pain that remained.
Son of a bitch
. “I’m fine.”
    Her brows lifted and she cocked her head to the side. “I don’t believe you. Your face says different.”
    â€œDon’t go analyzing me, Doc.”
    â€œCan I take a look, though?”
    The woman was as stubborn as a tick. With immodesty born of years of locker rooms and weigh-ins, he pulled back the covers, trying not to cover up Belle, who was snoring like a buzz saw. Granted, she’d helped him undress last night. Checked him out thoroughly—well, his hurting parts anyway—but what was going on now was an altogether different kind of checking out. In fact, Cole thought with a dry grin, what the good doctor was doing could be considered ogling.
    â€œMy ankle’s down there, Doc,” he said with a soft chuckle.
    Cole had never seen cheeks flush so fast. And such a pretty pink. Hmm . . . maybe the color was growing on him.
    Her head came up and her eyes met his. She looked positively mortified.
    â€œSee something you like?” he asked.
    Her eyes widened and her chin lifted haughtily. “I think you must’ve bumped your head, Cole. It’s far too inflated this morning.”
    He grinned and picked up a piece of toast. “Nothing wrong with lookin’ or admirin’, Grace. I’m doing it right now, in fact.”
    She looked down at her scrubs as if she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “I have to go to work this morning.”
    â€œYeah, I got that.”
    â€œBut I’ll be back by eleven. We can continue what we started before the unfortunate accident. Brainstorm on how we could locate Sweet. Maybe we can bring the boxes in here—”
    â€œI can’t stay, Doc,”